I feel like a broken record when it's necessary to keep apologizing for the delay, but I am sorry. I was on vacation for a while (I even managed to see POTO on Broadway in NYC for the first time last week! It was spectacular!).
There are only a few more chapters left in this story, so the end is near. :)
Ch. 33
The icy fingers of Winter had retreated, and in their stead was the season of blooming flowers and love (or, at least, Erik imagined that it was a time of love for other people). Staring out of the window and gazing upon the fresh dew drops on the crimson petals of a budding rose, he imagined that it was a time when people would be taken up with romantic notions and silly fancies as they strolled among the parks and towns with nothing but the soft breeze against them.
He cared nothing for romantic notions or silly fancies.
If the stories of love were to be likened to the blossoming flowers throughout the land, then surely his was that of a rose whose thorns were so large and pain-inducing that he could never quite grasp hold of it; he might look upon it from afar, or perhaps touch it ever-so-slightly with the tip of his finger, but it was never to be held within his hands.
The woman who resided in his house was certainly not a girl who was prone to foolish daydreaming or sighing of the heart. He imagined that she had once been interested in love, but he was certain that he had been the one to destroy that desire within her. If not, then certainly it was not he that she dreamed about on this warm and sun-filled day; perhaps she desired for a strong and charming nobleman to take her away from her imprisonment with a beast.
Erik had become closer to insanity with each passing day, and all of his days had proven that he could only seek solitude by himself, with a few words spoken to his servants as the singular form of socialization that he had. Old habits were very difficult to disrupt.
Indeed, he found that history had repeated itself. How long was he to be shackled to the same fate? How much more could he endure, watching the heart-wrenching familiarities of loneliness and foolishness pass before his very eyes? Not only had the past winter season proven to him that he could not possibly be loved in return, no matter how he had hoped, but if anything, he had only caused yet another woman whom he loved to fear him.
Estella had distanced herself from him for quite some time, though he was not exactly certain why. He guessed that the reason was just as any other person he had known who could not accept the monster that he was, but it pained him to obssess over precisely when it was that she had come to this realization of his true identity, for that he also did not know. And could he have done anything to prevent it? Probably not.
He had made a few last desperate and pitiful attempts to reconnect their friendship, but she did not respond. Though they shared the same estate, he hardly ever caught a glimpse of her, and when he did, it was short-lived and cold-shouldered.
A part of him could not understand why she had behaved so differently before-why she had once been so warm and even affectionate with him-only to suddenly develop disinterest (or perhaps even distaste) for him, while the other part wished that it had happened long ago. At least if she had been callous in behavior towards him from the very beginning, he would not have harbored hope and placed himself in the fragile state of having his heart crushed once more.
Only this time, it was very different than anything he had known. He once thought himself to have loved Christine very much, and he still believed it to have been a strong affection in which he had felt for her, but this pain that he felt for Estella-the sensation of himself being violently ripped open to feel the agony day after day-was something that he never expected. How could he react any differently? How could he not have a passion for her, a deep love for his beautiful wife who had placed kisses upon his lips and promised him happiness with her touch and smile? It was more of a hope than Christine had ever given him.
He had left the Opera Populaire a rejected man. A hurting one, if you will. But he now found himself completely broken without the companionship of the one woman who had ever shown him genuine kindness. Not only did he grieve the lack of her intellectual conversation, but he mourned over the night in which the two of them had danced together, hidden among the masked crowd as if they belonged there and holding each other as if the two of them were meant to be. How could it have been otherwise, when he had read the softness in her eyes and felt the raw emotion of her lips?
And yet the woman who would not so much as cast a glance in his direction had been a stranger to him. This quiet, reserved, and even frail woman was not the same one whom he had sworn his life to. She was an empty carcass of a human being, walking around when she could not be seen and showing only lifelessness in her eyes.
For months, he had contemplated his behavior. Had he done something in particular to encourage her to seperate herself from him? Had his foolish inclinations and unwanted affections for her been made manifest, so that she was frightened or even disgusted by him?
"You are to be my eternal torment. A love so pure yet not naive, so close within my grasp that I could have caressed it! How I would have tenderly touched the affections within my reach! How you have taunted my memory with the feeling of your lips upon mine and the softness of your skin!" he wrote. Somehow it felt better to release his pain through the ink.
"I began to wander into the depths of belonging and completeness; your companionship had given me a taste of what it felt to be whole. It is something that I will forever mourn and cannot forget. It shall prove to be the wound that can never heal; torn flesh that will cause me agony and misery for the rest of my days, with only your kindness as salve to my pain. If only you would grace me with your presence once more and speak so tenderly again! I would give anything I have in order to have your smile in my life for one final time, before I am doomed once more to the eternal hell in which I have suffered all of these years!
"And yet, your beauty haunts me with every glimpse I catch of you; even when I cannot see your face I can remember the thick eyelashes, the fullness of your lips, and the warm brown eyes that once looked at me with equal tenderness. And now-now I am only to see them for a fleeting moment, and they only hold pain and silence. What have I done to you to have caused this? Have I tainted you as well, as I have done to everything that I have ever yearned for?
"My beautiful dove, have I caged you? Do you wish to be free of me?"
Erik ceased his scribbled writings and rubbed his temples with a sigh as the threatening tears blurred his vision.
He should never have wholly ignored all logic and reasoning against him when he took her as his wife, and to have fed his wild imagination with the idea that history would refrain from repeating itself was now to be his demise.
Estella inhaled sharply and closed her eyes, allowing the sun to warm her skin as she tilted her face upward toward the clear blue sky. She gently adjusted the light ivory shawl about her elbows and enjoyed the soft breeze on her skin.
The winter season had done poorly for her mood, and she had often found herself far more depressed than she was when the snow was gone and the sun revealed itself. In fact, her mentality had improved so much that she had even decided to take walks among the courtyard for the past two weeks.
She rather enjoyed this time to herself, though she would often cast a glance in the direction of the window that she knew belonged to Erik's quarters. She wondered what he had occupied his time with.
She imagined him to be pouring himself out onto various sheets of paper or the keys of his pianoforte. She remembered the sweet music that he had once played for her, and she had on many occasions been tempted to request to hear him play, though she had decided against it. She had not been prepared enough to face him these past few months, just yet.
Now as she walked among the various foliage and plants, noting the pretty flowers that were beginning to appear, she wondered if she would ever be prepared to talk to him. It had taken weeks and even months before she had felt comfortable enough to peruse the grounds without the company of her Lady's Maid nearby, and even longer before she had ceased sobbing inside of her room at night.
She took each day as it ocurred and attempted to worry not about her future, though it was far more difficult than one would expect. While she was still haunted by the nightmares and thus could hardly sleep the entirety of a night, she had finally come to the conclusion that she did not wish to spend her every waking moment in fear as well. Though her mind always seemed to calculate an escape everywhere she went and she could not quite bring herself to share the company of any man, she had already begun the transition into living a somewhat normal life, once again.
She knew that she would never truly return to the life that she once had; a pain would always fill her heart at the thought of what had happened and her trust was nearly impossible to earn. Could she ever forgive the gender and find a bit of peace for herself?
For the first few months, she could only be traumatized by the thoughts of being violated. She had cowered in fear in the presence of her own husband-a man who had done nothing to her in a violent way. She could not erase the images of what had happened and the shame that overcame her. Day by day, she wished to cease breathing, feeling that she had both failed in some sort of way and that she was worthless. It was the secret that she had shared only with Marguerite, the maid who had meant so much to her in friendship, now. Only her reassuring words and the melodies that drifted through the air if she should pass by Erik's door that would bring her comfort and will her to continue.
Yes, she heard his sweet music on many occasions, and had only wished that the notes were meant for her. How she would picture his gentle hands moving atop of the ivory keys and the furrow of his dark brows as a hint of emotion was displayed on his face. Perhaps he would turn to her with passion in his eyes, with the vulnerability and openness that she had seen before, allowing her passage into his soul for a brief moment. How his music was no longer the sorrow, haunting sounds, but instead; a longing tale of deep love and passion. How she wanted those songs to be for her alone!
No, she shook her head in thought. He would never be able to see past what had happened if she told him. She was ruined; she was used and filthy, now. He deserved a wife who only belonged to him, who could love him with a pureness and innocence that she no longer possessed. He deserved far better than she could ever give him.